


Mine

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Play, Dominance, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Puppy Play, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy tries something new on Thomas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“And this is a... a _thing_?”

“’Course it is—just because you’ve never heard of it doesn’t mean other men don’t think it.” And Jimmy isn’t lying exactly, because he’s _sure_ he’s heard it out of someone’s mouth at one point or another, over too many beers in amongst the loud jeers at a pub. He’s heard worse things, anyway, things that make even less sense, that sound sillier or dirtier or the sort of thing that would give Mr. Carson a heart attack just to think about. Besides, Thomas is hardly in a position to judge. 

He prefers other men exclusively, not like Jimmy, not like _normal_ men—so what if Jimmy might want to try a dog on the side? Not a real dog, anyway. A Thomas-dog, with the body of a man but the power of a pet. And the clothes of one. It must be cold for Thomas, even though it is the summer, standing bare like that in the center of the room. Jimmy’s bolted the door shut, of course, shoved a chair up against it and everything to make sure they won’t be interrupted, not again. But he’s still all done up, trousers and button-up and waistcoat and everything. He stands right in front of Thomas, not quite as tall, but toe-to-toe, shoulder-to-shoulder. All lined up right, mirrored symmetry. Not like how it would be with a woman. 

Jimmy would _never_ put a collar on a woman like this. He isn’t _that_ disrespectful. But Thomas is a man, and he can take it. Jimmy holds the black leather against Thomas’ adam’s apple, feels it bob beneath his fingers with Thomas’ shortened breath. He wraps the ends around the length of Thomas’ throat, and the skin below his fingers is hot to the touch, even though Thomas has managed to keep his blush down. Better than when Jimmy stripped him. Jimmy slips the end through the clasp around the back of Thomas’ neck, knowing it would be easier to walk around him and look, but it’s better like this, facing one another. He wants to look in Thomas’ eyes as he seals Thomas’ fate. He loops it through the first hole, decides it’s too loose, and tightens it again; Thomas’ eyes flutter shut, lips parting. Jimmy asks, “Can you breathe?”

Thomas nods. So Jimmy goes to the next hole, watches Thomas wince and nearly choke, and he asks, “How about now?” He doesn’t know why he so very much enjoys putting Thomas through the paces, and he knows it’s wrong of him, but he doesn’t stop. 

Thomas looks at Jimmy through burning, half lidded eyes, and says, “That’s fine.” His adam’s apple strains against the leather when he talks. Jimmy likes the sight of that too much to be kinder, so he leaves it where it is. He fastens it closed and shoves one finger underneath, just to double-check—isn’t that what one does with dogs? He’s never put Isis’ collar on personally. When he slips in a second finger, Thomas’ breathing becomes visibly strained, and as soon as Jimmy pulls them out, Thomas takes a large gulp of air.

Jimmy runs his fingers around the front, toying with the little pendent that falls against Thomas’ collarbone, and wish it said instead: _Thomas Barrow, property of Jimmy Kent_ , instead of Isis and Lord Grantham. 

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could’ve gotten away with ‘borrowing’ the leash too, so he could drag Thomas, naked, through the halls on all fours, showing him off and controlling his every move and humiliating him like Thomas first did to Jimmy. In a different way, of course. And Thomas would enjoy Jimmy’s kind of revenge, he’s sure. But that dream has to stay in his head, so he drops his hands down Thomas’ chest, brushing Thomas’ hard nipples, pebbled in the cold, on the way.

Thomas, trying to look as bored and stoic as he does with everyone else’s business, mutters, “This is a strange game.” For a moment, he’s tall, slick, normal Thomas, like he’s just lounging outside, like he should have a cigarette between his fingers. 

Intoxicated, Jimmy reaches to pat his naked arse and hisses, “Dogs don’t talk.” Thomas’ face flickers through a smirk at the touch and a scowl at the scolding. Jimmy’s sure he’s been smirking this whole time. It’s more than just seeing a bizarre, should-never-be-able-to-happen fantasy through; it’s putting Thomas at his feet and knowing Thomas will willingly surrender. 

When Jimmy puts his hand on Thomas’ shoulder, Thomas glances sideways at it, but lets himself be pushed down to his knees. He looks good there, always does, but then, he looks good in most positions. Better when he’s all exposed, pale skin. He takes an extra second to lower his hands to the floor—hands and knees, like a real pet. It gives Jimmy a thrill. Jimmy finds he likes being above Thomas physically, like he probably would with anyone—who doesn’t like to feel powerful, worshipped? Behind Thomas’ casual expression is a burning desire to please, and Jimmy knows too much not to see it. For a moment, he just stares at his prize, at Thomas’ flat chest and smooth stomach, lightly splattered with dark hair, and the thicker patch above his jutting cock, fair sized and half hard, even though they’ve barely started. Thomas is always hard for Jimmy—another strong ego-boost. Jimmy drops his palm to Thomas’ head, runs his fingers through Thomas’ silky hair, and purrs, “Good boy, Thomas.” He never had a pet like this, but he knows how to say it in that superior, demeaning way that reduces Thomas down to _his_. “ _Good boy_...”

Thomas closes his eyes again and looks shamefully pleased. He fought so hard to climb the service ladder; who knew he’d be so content to be Jimmy’s dog? At times like this, any thoughts of how _wrong_ it is to experiment with another man fly right out of Jimmy’s head, eclipsed in total hunger. 

On a whim, Jimmy slips his right index finger into the loop on the back of the collar where the leash should go. He didn’t have any real plans for this, not beyond _strip Thomas_ , and _own Thomas_ , and _make him get down on all fours_ , but ideas are rapidly boiling up—Jimmy should’ve snuck out a small dish, poured milk or water in it and made Thomas lap it up off the floor. Or they should’ve snuck into a spare sitting room—it’s late enough that they’d be unlikely to get caught—and he could’ve sat back in the couch, pat his lap and had Thomas lie across it. But mostly, he should’ve got that leash, and Jimmy uses his arm instead. He takes a step around and crosses the floor of his small room, dragging Thomas with him; Thomas scrambles to follow. It probably isn’t comfortable to have his unprotected palms and knees against the wood—other than that one glove, anyway—but Thomas doesn’t complain. He goes where Jimmy leads and quickly gets the hang of it, until Jimmy is marching him in circles and he’s crawling with surprising grace. Maybe he’s done it before. Jimmy has the fleeting thought that he should make Thomas crawl more often. 

He finally stops on the third lap, right next to the bed. Thomas stays on all fours but leans back on his thighs, looking up at Jimmy with his now-disheveled hair half in his face. He always looks best when his bangs have fallen across his forehead. His eyes watch Jimmy with an almost challenging flair—what next? Whatever it is, Jimmy already knows that Thomas will do it. For him. Thomas would already trade dignity and freedom to have him. 

Thomas doesn’t need to do all that, but Jimmy enjoys it anyway. Besides, isn’t that the fun of sinning? Naughty games? New, exciting adventures? The more Jimmy examines the possibilities, the more he _stares_ at his kneeling, naked pet, the harder he gets. He wonders vaguely if it would spoil the mood to turn Thomas over and scratch his belly, just to see if his cock’s as stiff as Jimmy’s. 

Jimmy somehow winds up mumbling, “Christ, you look good,” and then, “I want to breed you.” And Thomas lifts his eyebrows but doesn’t at all look disagreeable. He looks like he wants to pounce up and lick Jimmy’s face and hump his leg.

But Thomas doesn’t move, because he’s a good dog, and he’s never made another unsolicited move on Jimmy since that first non-kiss that Jimmy’s since rectified. 

He does, however, have the nerve to wriggle his arse, and even though he doesn’t really have a tail, Jimmy gets the idea. Jimmy watches it sway back and forth, much the way he did when Thomas was crawling, and then Jimmy mutters, “Oh hell,” and starts to fiddle with the front of his trousers. He’s on his knees behind Thomas before he’s finished, and Thomas, grinning slyly over his shoulder, spreads his legs around Jimmy’s knees. Jimmy stares at Thomas’ hanging cock, clearly engorged, and pushes his own trousers and pants around his hips. He licks his lips and adds, “Don’t tell anyone I’m into dogs.”

Thomas doesn’t say anything, which is a shame, because Jimmy would love a chance to spank him again. Instead, he thrusts his arse forward into Jimmy’s lap, and Jimmy stifles a moan whilst grumbling, “Hold on—not yet.” He spits in his palm as many times as he can manage, because he wouldn’t want to actually _hurt_ Thomas—and Thomas is always very, _very_ tight: could never take him raw—and he slicks his hard shaft up with it. He tries to avoid doing any tricks with it—he’s already rock solid and wants this to last—but it’s hard to resist with Thomas’ arse so perfectly laid out for him. He adds, “Get yourself ready, would you?”

Shifting to one arm, Thomas reaches back, slides two fingers into his crack and pries it open, tries to hold his cheeks apart for Jimmy’s viewing pleasure. Jimmy spends that first second just staring. Thomas’ pink, puckered hole clenches under the scrutiny, and when it fluctuates back open, a slick glob of clear liquid trickles out, adding to the shimmering ring of moisture clinging to his brim. Jimmy licks his lips again. Clearly, Thomas already prepared himself. With whatever that lubricant stuff is he uses, the stuff in that little bottle in his top drawer. He must’ve fingered himself open too, and for a moment, Jimmy’s irritated—he would’ve rather witnessed that—but then he’s relieved; now he won’t have to wait. And of course Thomas would do this—he’s always planning, so clever, but wasn’t this wishful thinking? If Jimmy weren’t so horny, he’d tease relentlessly. 

But he’s _very_ horny, and he practically mounts Thomas like an animal, leaning down over Thomas’ back and shoving his cock between Thomas’ cheeks. Thomas has to retract his hand and use both arms to steady himself. Jimmy takes over, running his shaft up over Thomas’ hole, then all the way down to his balls, prodding at them for no real reason other than more contact. He places a kiss on Thomas’ shoulder, and Thomas finally breaks, mumbling, “ _Jimmy_...”

Jimmy slaps his hip, hard, and mutters again, “Dogs don’t talk.” Then he presses his tip against Thomas’ hole, sucks in breath, and pushes in. 

He pops inside easily, groans in delight, takes in Thomas’ gasp then beautiful whimper. He pushes again, just a little bit, then pulls back, takes a second to breathe, and starts to really screw himself inside, one centimeter out, two in. Thomas’ channel is stifling hot and wet, and it seems to suck at him, tries to pull him deeper, like Thomas’ entire body wants nothing more than to be filled with _Jimmy_. It’s a trip and a half, and in these moments, Thomas always makes Jimmy feel like a _god_.

It takes forever to get all the way inside. A blissful forever. But then he’s at the brim, burying himself in Thomas’ gorgeous body and grinding in to be sure, his balls rubbing against Thomas’ cheeks. Jimmy needs one hand next to Thomas’ just to steady himself, but the other he uses to clutch at Thomas’ hip. Normally, he’d reach around and return the favour, but then he spots the collar, and he wouldn’t jerk off a dog. He wouldn’t fuck a dog either, but that’s just a technicality. He nuzzles into Thomas’ neck, inhales expensive, stolen soap and the raw man under that, and draws Thomas’ hips in a few deliberate circles. 

Then he slides out just enough to rocket back in, stabbing Thomas forward so hard that Thomas nearly hits the floor. He pushes back just in time. It occurs to Jimmy belatedly that they’re right next to the bed, could easily still get inside, but there’s something so much hotter about fucking Thomas into the ground, mounting him on the floor like the bitch he is. Jimmy makes his next thrust count, pours all his strength in. He fucks Thomas with everything he has, every thrust hard and brutal and bruising, because he does want to bruise Thomas, not to hurt, but to _mark_ Thomas’ pale skin, to let everyone know that even if they can’t hold hands at the table, Thomas Barrow is still _his_. They all know he owns Thomas’ heart, but at night, behind closed doors, he also owns Thomas’ body. Jimmy owns ever part of Thomas. He presses his face into Thomas’ neck, feels the collar against his cheek and bites into Thomas’ shoulder, teeth cutting in over last-night’s still-lingering evidence. He marks Thomas all over again, and Thomas groans and thrusts wanton hips back into him, begging for more. 

Thomas is a good fuck. A great fuck. Thomas feels so, so impossibly good; the pressure is almost enough to make Jimmy black out. But it’s more than that. He doesn’t sweat much, and when he does, it smells too good, just makes it easier to slide against him, even though Jimmy’s still fully clothed and will have to wash it all by the morning. Thomas makes the best noises, moans and hisses and cuts off screams that would bring the roof down—thank goodness no one beds in the room next door. Thomas tries to reach back for Jimmy’s hip, and Jimmy doesn’t have the heart to slap him away; he lets Thomas paw at him and takes every little stroke and squeeze as a transfer of unconditional love. He knows Thomas loves him. Adores him. Cares for him more than anything in this world, and that makes Jimmy dizzy. 

Jimmy presses a wet kiss to Thomas’ jaw and moans, “ _Thomas_ ,” because sometimes he just gets so overwhelmed with how much he wants Thomas that he can barely breathe. He forgets supporting himself and wraps his arms tight around Thomas’ stomach, hears Thomas choking for air but doesn’t stop, and Thomas nearly buckles under the weight but pushes up like only a soldier could. The game fizzles out—it was fun, so fun, but now it’s just down to the two of them again, and Jimmy does _love Thomas too,_ even if he can’t bring himself to say it. He wraps his still-slicked palm around Thomas’ cock and squeezes—Thomas cries out: sheer ecstasy.

Jimmy kisses his cheek. His neck, his chin, the side of his nose—any part that Jimmy can reach, he covers in kisses, and he strokes Thomas’ cock in time with his thrusts, wanting them to come together. Do everything together. He doesn’t _really_ want Thomas as his dog; he wants Thomas _as his lover_ , but he’ll take Thomas like this anyway, like any way. Thomas _feels so right._ He wasted so much time denying this. He’s an idiot. He always talks like he’s perfect, and Thomas makes it worse by telling him he is, but he’s not, and he fucks Thomas so good, wants Thomas so bad, crushes Thomas against him like they’ll just mold into one—

And he comes first, tumbling into his orgasm like spiraling off a cliff. The pleasure washes over him, a torrential flood that makes him see white behind his eyes. He might be screaming Thomas’ name, a strangled version, but still the whole damn thing, and he’s holding Thomas back against him so he can bury everything he has deep inside Thomas’ body. For a moment, all he can do is feel that, but then he’s rushing back down, and he pumps Thomas’ cock furiously, until Thomas is whimpering helplessly and humping his hand, taking Jimmy’s whole body with him. Jimmy pants against Thomas’ neck and serves Thomas’ pleasure until Thomas is splattering his hand and crying, “ _Jimmy—_ ”

Jimmy thinks he might collapse. Even coming down, he still feels giddy. He strokes Thomas out until there’s nothing left, takes string after string bubbling up and slipping down his fingers, dotting the floor. Finally, Thomas’ hips stop rocking, and Jimmy knows he should pull out but doesn’t quite want to. 

Another few hazy moments that could be seconds or minutes, and he starts to go down enough that he has to. He takes a shallow puddle of lubricant and spit and cum with him, and he pulls back, sitting up on his knees, to wipe his cock off on Thomas’ abused cheeks, now glowing red from being slapped by Jimmy’s hips. Jimmy pets the small of Thomas’ back and murmurs, “Good boy, Thomas. You’re such a good boy.”

Thomas is busy panting. It’s probably harder to catch air with the collar tight around his neck, but Jimmy doesn’t remove it. Not yet. Finally, Thomas gasps and groans, “Good enough to sleep on the furniture?” Jimmy laughs without meaning to. 

He scoops an arm under Thomas’ stomach to help Thomas up, and together they climb onto the bed, collapsing into it, boneless and satiated. They lie next to each other, in very different states of dress, with their legs hanging off. Jimmy’s not quite ready to sleep yet, but he’s not ready to go anywhere either, and this is definitely one of those nights where they’ll be staying together, risks be damned. 

When he regains enough of his head, he rolls his face over and draws his fingers over Thomas’ throat, playing over the collar and sighing, “I don’t want to give it back.”

Thomas looks at him with that wicked, sexy-as-all-hell smirk and says, “I’ll buy you a new one.” Buy _Jimmy_ one or one for Jimmy to put on _Thomas_ : that can be discussed later. Jimmy supposes he wouldn’t mind being Thomas’ pet on a rare occasion, but he’s not sure Thomas would be comfortable after everything that’s happened. Right now, it doesn’t matter. Jimmy feels like he’s grinning stupidly, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He just keeps touching Thomas, until Thomas takes Jimmy’s hand in his damaged one, draws it up to his lips, and softly kisses the back of it. 

Over the line of Jimmy’s knuckles, Thomas smirks and asks, “Do you want to take me for a walk to grab a cigarette?” He doesn’t mention that he’ll probably have to put on clothes for that, but there’s no reason he can’t keep the collar on under his shirt. 

Jimmy grins impossibly wider and helps tug him out of bed.


End file.
